Sentences just came threading through the tiny gaps of my brain. Like little worms that came to take the apple, they took me over. Paragraphs of stories such forming. I would be in a mood for weaving tales, but it would not be the right time since I'm standing in a crowded bus filled to the brim such that I'm only an inch closer to a molestation case, and whereby my fingers couldn't hit away and dance freely.

I started thinking about people, it happened during work yesterday. And.. Today.. I never know how deep this might get, since it's merely a game of guessing and hypothetically assign a story to them. Which may or may not, accurately or not, depict any point of their history that made them this way. There can no be justification.

Cacophonous voices that trailed among the crowd as people start squeezing in and out of the bus.
We're like talking sardines..